


Circles

by maroon



Series: Sunnyland [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: BAMF Connor, BAMF North, Bottom Connor, M/M, Top Markus, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 08:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14930330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maroon/pseuds/maroon
Summary: Markus has two vices and two vices only.Connor RK800 and cigarettes.





	Circles

**Author's Note:**

> i clicked shuffle and spotify spoke this fic into existence. Circles is such a connormarkus song excuse me while i cry over what cannot be. on another note, i took canon, stepped on it, and then picked it up and tried to straighten it out again
> 
>  
> 
> [Circles by Pierce the Veil](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucN-iv4QVWw)
> 
>  
> 
> leave comments, i love those ! also tell me if i should make this into a series or something bc a bitch just might.

Markus has picked up a bad habit.

 

His knees hurt; or at least, it hurts due to what his approximation of pain is. He’s been running a lot. He knows it’s all just in his processors, these pains, these hurts, these highs and lows, but still. It gets tiring after awhile. The gunshots, the screaming, all the blue blood… it’s burned into his data chips—his  _brain_ —and right behind his eyelids, whenever he closes his eyes.

 

God, all this fucking  _running_.

 

He wants a fucking cigarette.

 

He’s actually picked this little nifty trick from one of the older deviants; not North, with her aversion to smells that remind her of her old life, nor Josh or Simon. That android’s long gone, by now. He doesn’t remember her name, but she had burn marks up and down her arm, and she’d been one of the more aggressive and violent deviants he’s ever met.

 

She taught him that cigarettes made people—blue collar people, normal people—feel more at ease around you, or annoyed enough to be disgruntled about it. Either way, you’re as human as human can be.

 

Markus knows the exact moment he chose to pick up a cigarette just to stave off the building pressure in his throat, the coldness in the pit of his stomach. It was after his face was met with the dark grey barrel of a gun and honey brown eyes.

 

He could almost taste the metal of it.

 

Right outside the makeshift bedroom he’s appropriated for himself—not that he needs it—is the sounds of feet shuffling, low murmurs, equally tired words being exchanged. There’s still progress to be done, and their progress has shown exponentially, with the humans joining their protests and coup d’etats; sometimes, Markus questions their sincerity. Do they really want androids to be free to do as they want, to exist as their equals, or are they just doing this because they have nothing to lose when they do die for their cause?

 

Markus doesn’t want to question the implications of  _that_.

 

He’s no hero—he’s the antithesis to it, in fact. So, yes. He’s no hero.

 

Twisting to the side, he digs into his jean pocket to pull out a pack of Reds, which still exist, apparently.  _Classics never die_ , Carl would say. Markus huffs a laugh at the thought and shuffles onto his feet, dragging himself out to a space inside the bunk where he could smoke in peace, leaning back against the ratty walls.

 

_Jericho_. For a place that sounds like it came from the literal Bible, Jericho is a piece of shit. Ratty walls, ratty halls, ratty floors. It’s a hiding place for rodents and throwaway toys that the humans just didn’t want anymore.

 

Markus laughs to himself as he pats his coat for the electric blue lighter he’d managed to swipe off one of the protesters the other day. He stares at it for a second. There’s a dark blue triangle at the bottom of it, and then the lighter’s brand.

 

_Interesting_ , he muses, flicking the wheel to light the end of his cigarette.

 

A deep sigh punches its way out of him as he takes a drag from the newly lit cigarette, the smoke gracing his lungs before crawling up his throat and back out.

 

He wonders what the other deviants will think once they’ve learned their  _leader_ —god, he hates hearing that word—is something other than the pristine, unabraised, untainted android that they think he is. For a group of people who claim to want humanity and all it entails, they still thrive in being the pure androids that they once were, subconsciously it may be. Sometimes, he sees Simon looking off dazedly, his mouth moving and forming words that he could never say to a group of deviants.

 

Something about his old life. Something he’s purposefully left behind

 

Markus takes another drag, “Purposefully left behind,” he murmurs to himself, blowing the smoke into circles so that it danced tantalisingly through the air like haloes. He sneers in the dark. “Yeah, right.”

 

_You can’t save people who doesn’t want to be saved,_ he thinks sourly, reaching up into a fading circle and swiping his finger clear through the fading shape, harshly breaking it apart. He watches it turn into nothing. There are many deviants here in Jericho who still haven’t truly found their purpose—yes, they want to be alive. They want to be free. But to what extent? How will Markus ever be sure that they won’t fall back into their programming because the going got too tough, and they decided that being subservient is better than deciding for yourself?

 

Carl’s voice comes into his mind unbidden again, rough and worn from years of use, “ _When the going gets tough, the tough gets going_.”

 

It’s funny that now, he can only conjure up the voice and face of his father through these little snippets. Is he forgetting Carl’s face? His little mannerisms, like the way his nose scrunches in discomfort every time Markus brought out a needle? But Carl is right; perseverance is key. Nothing ever got done by people sitting on their asses.

 

Though, how will he lead a group of people that are so fallible to reverting back into their own selves?

 

Because Markus has thought about it a lot. Leaving everything and just… falling back into that world of quietness, where only Carl Manfred’s voice guided him through.

 

Maybe he just misses Carl.  

 

It’s not that he doesn’t see hope in these deviants. He sees in them more than hope, actually. He sees the capability to love, to care, to be kind. Things that are  _inherent_ in them rather than programmed. He sees families, smiling children, androids walking hand in hand on the streets, their smiles wide and uncaring, their hands tinged white and glowing a soft blue from where their fingers are tangled around each other.

 

It’s a beautiful thought. An artist’s thought. Idealistic and creative at best, a delusion or a hallucination at worst.

 

Markus takes another drag from the cigarette. Maybe he can sneak in another smoke after this before he, Simon, Josh, and North will need to head out again. Their work doesn’t stop because he wants (not  _needs_ ) to rest. These deviants, even though they have the will to be free, they still don’t know what to do. They still find someone to look to, to rely on. Markus is thankful that Carl taught him that there’s more to life than servitude; there’s more than just the edges of the canvas and the ends of a paintbrush. There’s always more.

 

“Markus,” North’s voice comes from the other side of the door, like Markus predicted, “we have to go.”

 

Markus huffs, bringing his boot up to extinguish the butt of the cigarette in the worn-out soles of the shoe, before shoving himself off the wall. He throws the butt out into one of the dips of the room, sniffing and jogging a little to psyche himself up as he makes his way to the door.

 

North’s face is still plump and pretty, but there’s an aura about her that makes her look gaunt and older, and Markus reaches out to tug at an amber lock, making her huff out a small, tired laugh.

 

They’re heading to one of the CyberLife offices to get what information they could; after all the fuss that’s happened, it’s most likely that they’ll be deactivating and dumping a bunch of androids just to stop them from deviating. It’ll be good to know whether or not they think it’s a glitch in the system—an android’s deviance, of course—or if it’s something that’s nurtured by letting fully sentient A.I.s come in contact with human beings.

 

The amber-haired girl tugs down the beanie on top of her head to cover half her forehead as they make their way down, nodding tightly at the androids they pass. They’re all huddled and scared, and to be completely honest, Markus is, too. He’s full of fear. He’s scared that once he steps out of this little nook of bent metal they call home, he’ll be met by cold brown eyes and gunmetal grey, the sharp neon of the band around a lithe bicep.

 

He’s scared that he might see Connor RK800 again.

 

Markus’ fingers twitch, an involuntary action that’s been embedded into his coding, picked up from when Leo twitches in anxiety (or from being doped up on drugs).

 

He wants another fucking cigarette.

 

Josh bumps his shoulder into Markus’. “You smell like cigarettes.” he says lightly, and North looks at them both before hauling herself up and out into the wide expanse of dank air that they all shared in Detroit, Simon following, and then Josh.

 

Markus doesn’t answer him until the man’s pulled him out of the vessel, dropping Markus’ hand to dust off his coat. He hums as he waits for Markus’ answer.

 

North leads, and the three of them follow deftly.

 

Not before long, the heart of Detroit meets them, and they blend in perfectly, with their dirtied faces and ragtag clothes, eyes low and exhausted.

 

Markus finally shrugs a shoulder as they look up at the tall buildings considered as one of CyberLife’s offices. He turns his head slightly to regard Josh, whose hands are wrapped around the strap of his bag until his knuckles whitened. He doesn't look at Josh when he answers, choosing to watch the hustle and bustle of Detroit. At the end of the road, there are two men, one, dark haired and pale leaning on a taller, more built man, eyes drooping in sleepiness. There's a dark arm wrapped around svelte shoulders. 

 

There's something bitter and hopelessly satisfying crawling up his throat at the sight. 

 

“I just picked up a bad habit.”

 

**

Connor is a long line of sin and danger on his bed.

 

“I owe you.” Markus says from where he’s sprawled himself on the ratty motel chair, legs spread with only a towel draped over his thighs. He’d showered, because if he didn’t, then North and the others would smell Connor’s distinct scent of roses and gun powder on him.

 

The other man tilts his head, and for a second, Markus could see how people thought Connor RK800, a killing machine meant to hunt down and mercilessly murder deviant toys like Markus, could be innocent.

 

The gentle slope of Connor’s shoulders tilts upwards as he eases himself onto his elbows, his chin propped up on his palm. “Why is that?” he asks in that easy voice of his, the one that made Markus’ mind twist and turn as they pressed their foreheads against each other’s, because a few hours earlier, Connor had blue blood on the side of his face, having just disposed of a deviant Markus never knew or saw.

 

He feels disgusted that he still devoured Connor’s pink, soft lips splattered with neon blue blood.

 

But Markus is a deviant now. More human than android.

 

_(To err is human.)_

 

Connor’s eyes light up as if he’s just realising something, and maybe he is. “Oh, because I didn’t kill you?” he asks. Markus wants to wrap his hands around Connor’s slender, pale throat and  _squeeze_ , but every time he thinks about putting his hands on the man’s body, everything in him lights up,  _warms up_ , and his heart beats a little bit faster.

 

The man tucks a stray curl behind his ear. Still so composed even after moaning and mewling for Markus’ cock, still so elegant, so damn  _mechanical_.

 

“It’s no problem.” Connor murmurs, “I… you’re…”

 

“You’re surprisingly eloquent today.” Markus lightly teases, devoid of emotion. He’s not stupid as to what this little thing between them is. It’s betrayal. It’s lies. It’s pulling Connor RK800’s head back by the hair because if his tongue tied with Markus’, he’ll know. He’ll know everything.

 

This, whatever this is, is what Carl Manfred would call _dancing with the devil in the pale moonlight._

 

Markus isn’t programmed to believe in anything than what CyberLife, who had created him, wants him to believe. But again, he’s a deviant now. If he so chooses to believe in God and everything a god entails, then Lucifer truly is God’s most beautiful angel, and he’s on the bed Markus rented at King’s Motor Inn, his body made to represent comfort and ease, yet exuding danger and ruthlessness.

 

“An angel,” Markus whispers to himself as he stands and lets the towel fall from the muscles of his thighs, revealing the softened, girthy length of his prick, to which Connor’s eyes never land on. The android’s brown eyes are trained on Markus’ as he shifts into a more languid position, laying down on his side and tucking his folded arm underneath his head.

 

Markus runs a hand through Connor’s hair and curls his fingers on the back of the android’s head, tugging Connor’s head back. Something like a purr tugs its way up and out of Connor’s throat.

 

“Tell me,” Markus begins, soft and commanding, very much like the altruistic, pragmatic leader of Jericho, “finish the sentence, RK800.”

 

A smirk that doesn’t belong on an RK800 paints Connor’s face beautifully. The flickering yellow light of the motel room does nothing to diminish Connor’s easy beauty. Carl would have taken one look at Connor and demanded the android be his muse.

 

Markus is more than inclined to agree.

 

Connor turns his head and nuzzles his nose into Markus’ wrist. “I’m starting to want you to make me.”

 

_Deviant behaviour_ , the red letters splatter behind his eyelids as he shuts them for a fraction of a second.

 

Markus tugs at Connor’s hair again, exposing the vulnerable line of the man’s throat. So beautiful. If Markus so wanted, he could just rip Connor’s head from his beautiful, lean body, and leave him there.

 

But then they’d send a new RK800, and Markus…

 

Like a dirty habit, like the way his heart beats a tattoo against his metal ribs when he smokes a cigarette, his mind chants:  _We don’t want that. We want Connor. We want Connor._

 

Markus slams Connor’s head back into the bed and uses free hand to wrap just above Connor’s hipbone, tugging him harshly upward so that his knees are planted on the bed and his back arches downward in a graceful curve, the plump cheeks of his ass spread just a few inches away from Markus’ soft dick.

 

Connor laughs.

 

“So easy to provoke,” Connor says matter-of-factly. His voice is muffled by the slightly yellowed sheets. “Such a short fuse for a caretaking android like you.”

 

Why does he  _say_ these things?

 

Markus growls as his cock hardens and he thrusts into Connor quickly and harshly, making Connor gasp at the intrusion. He’s still so wet from Markus’ earlier spend and the blueberry lube they always keep in the nightstand, so his cock slides right in like Connor’s made for him.

 

The thought couldn’t be farther from the truth.

 

“Ah,” Connor gasps softly as Markus begins thrusting, pushing back Connor’s sinewy body against his pelvis as if the man was nothing more but a warm hole to sink himself in, but they both know Connor is a little bit more than that.  _Markus_ is a little bit more than a man of the flesh.

 

A grunt punches its way out of Markus’ throat as Connor tightens around him, the man’s back arching more, the beautiful curve of his body perpetuating itself in front of Markus’ eyes, a feast made for him and him only. Cold, earthy eyes look over a freckled shoulder, and Markus tightens his grip on Connor’s head, growling lowly.

 

Connor isn’t made to be  _this_.

 

Isn’t made to be Markus’.

 

“Faster,” Connor suggests, ever the placating being that he’s made to be.

 

Markus snaps his hips forward, making the smaller man underneath him gasp and whine at the sensation of the head of Markus’ dick brushing against the approximation of a prostate inside Connor’s artificial body.

 

His fingers are tight and harsh against Connor’s head, pulling his hair back to the point that would  _hurt_ had Connor been human.

 

“Say my name,” Markus commands, the deep timbre of authority in his voice making Connor shudder around him.

 

“Your fingers smell like nicotine, RK200,” Connor says cheekily, a spit of emotion from his otherwise elegantly blank demeanor, with barely a pink flush on his pale body.

 

He could almost hear Connor thinking.  _Another flaw of humanity so clear in you_.  _Be proud, Deviant Saviour_.

 

Markus tugs him up by the hair and plasters his chest to the arch of Connor’s back, grinding his hips to the soft globes of his enemy’s ass. His teeth closes around the junction where Connor’s shoulder meets his neck, and  _that_ makes Connor buck and try to shove him off, registering the action as an attack to his person.

 

Undoubtedly,  _caution: impending hardware damage_ is flashing right behind Connor RK800’s eyes.

 

His jaw doesn’t let up, though.

 

No matter what Connor thinks, he’s here because _Markus_ let him be here.

 

Markus doesn’t think about how Connor could so easily twist in his arms and take Markus’ neck in his small, unassuming, capable hands and break it in one clean and graceful twist.

 

He lets go to mutter,  _threaten_ , “My name.” as he starts fucking back up into Connor, the tight hand on the android’s hip making the skin dent under his fingertips.

 

Connor whimpers and bows his head, or tries to. Markus won’t let him go.

 

_“_ Say _it_.” His teeth latch onto Connor’s shoulder again, making the android gasp in surprise or pleasure, Markus is past caring. There’s no love lost here, no affection to be doled out. They’re machines, both of them. No matter what they think, to the core, they’re made of wires and decorated in code. Handcrafted to perfection, to absolute faultlessness, to complete servitude. Compliance. They’re made to be  _machines_ , and there is very little margin of error.

 

Unbeknownst to both of them, Connor RK800’s margin of error is this:

 

_“Markus,”_

 

Connor finally relents, falling completely pliant in his arms. And Markus gives him what he wants, removing the hand from the android’s hip to jack off Connor’s cock, making the android sigh in relief.

 

Markus feels a small smile make his lips arch up, “You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whispers, confident as can be, with the most dangerous threat to his life and countless other android’s lives bent over and taking his cock gorgeously and willingly.

 

The android just hums at that. It’s no sound of assent, but it’s something. He’s heard him, and that’s all Markus wants.

 

After a few more pulls, Markus swipes his thumb over the slit of Connor’s cock, making the pale man gasp, eyes fluttering closed as Markus mercilessly ruts into him, chasing his own release.

 

With a forceful snap of his hips, Connor tightens around him as he spills into Markus’ fist, a small, high-pitched noise breaking free from the android’s throat. Markus’ mind twists at the sensation of Connor’s ass milking him for all he’s worth as he follows Connor off the brink of pleasure and ecstasy.

 

“Connor,” Markus breathes, a benediction and a damnation all at once.

 

There is an angel in his bed, and Markus is stupid enough to think that he can keep Connor’s wings and loyalty tethered to the ground, to  _him._

 

As Markus loosens his grip, Connor quickly moves, letting him fall into the bed as he swings a long leg over Markus’ waist, straddling him. He stares down at Markus, beautiful and composed, barely showing any evidence of their coupling save for the come dribbling out of his ass and the indentation of teeth on his shoulder.

 

He smiles. A vindictive smile has always been home on his face; a genuine one? Not so much. Markus has never seen Connor smile with any inkling of affection or fondness. There’s always hesitation, there’s always that stain of the brand of humanity CyberLife promotes. The cold kind of humanity, the one indistinguishable from being a machine.

 

A hand cups his cheek, and Connor’s eyes never strays from him, looking back and forth from Markus’ mismatched eyes. Looking for something. He always does this, after they fuck. Like he’s looking to see if Markus is any less deviant than he was before he shoved his cock inside Connor. If he was ever closer to teetering the edge of returning into _their_ fold.

 

Markus will never be sure if Connor ever finds it.

 

He turns to press a kiss into the middle of Connor’s palm, the only kiss he’ll ever place on him.

 

It was all like a ritual. God and worshipper. Hunter and hunted. Which is which?

 

The pale android bends at the waist and presses a reverent kiss against Markus’ chest, atop his heart.

 

“I’ll be thinking of you,” Connor says warmly,  _sadly_ , as he slips up and off Markus, graceful like a slither of silk. He puts on his clothes methodically, long legs encased back in worn jeans, the dark grey of his coat making him look pallid and severe, making the swan-like arch of his neck look more regal and unreachable, even for Markus, who had just put his hands all over that pale neck. He boasts the neon of his coat as if they were royal jewels, and the soft, sharp light of it casts his face in an artificial glow.

 

Markus lay on the bed, naked, vulnerable.

 

He picks up the police-issued standard pistol that’s on the nightstand, checking it with deft fingers and then shoving it into the holster inside his coat, smiling again at Markus.

 

Connor RK800 smiles that beautiful, sadistic smile that fits his gaunt face and winks.

 

“I’ll see you later, Markus RK200.”

 

And then he’s gone.

 

Markus throws an arm over his eyes and lets himself sink into the sheets, still smelling of roses and gunpowder. Such peculiar scents, he muses to himself. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like it’s how Connor would truly smell. But now, he’s covered in the scent of roses and gunpowder again, and the sun is rising.

 

North and the others will be looking for him soon, if he doesn’t make it back before the sun reaches the horizon. If he hurried, he can take the scenic route, maybe walk past his old home.

 

Connor always makes him feel things—nostalgia, uncontrollable lust, rage, pity, adoration, awe, and fear.

 

He removes the arm from his eyes to press his fingers against his cheek, where he can still feel Connor’s palm against it.

 

Yeah, he’s taking the scenic route today.

 

**

 

Simon is the one waiting for him at the mouth of Jericho when he makes it back home. The sun’s low, now. He didn’t expect to just sit down on a park bench and  _think_ (dream). In his daydream, there’d be a long line of elegance right beside him, one leg crossed over the other, flipping through a book, or playing with a coin.

 

Markus would be smoking a cigarette and sketching in one of Carl’s leftover sketch pads.

 

Then, brown eyes would turn to him, but they’re not cold like the earth after it rains, they’d be warm like coals in a fireplace. There’d be a smile. Pink lips would stretch into a small smile, and then Markus would lean in.

 

They would kiss, and Markus wouldn't be afraid of pressing his lips against the other man's and giving away secrets that would kill hundreds if not thousands of deviant androids. After a moment, the man would pull away, and wrap small, capable fingers to clutch at Markus’ shirt, tugging him closer.

 

_“You owe me. I demand to be paid in candy.”_

 

Markus gathers his wits about him and nods tightly at Simon, who’s got a pinched look about him, like he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

 

Markus knows that Simon doesn’t  _like_ him. He trusts him, sure. There may even be respect there, but Simon doesn’t like him. They’re not friends. Markus is the one leading them to freedom, because they don’t know any better. And Markus wants to take them by the shoulders; all he has is  _courage_. Maybe not even that, anymore. He doesn’t have Simon’s knowledge, or North’s cunning, or Josh’s compassion. All he has are the right  _words_  and a spontaneity that comes with his few decades of being activated.

 

He knows that he’ll never be good enough for the likes of Simon because he just had _Connor RK800_ in his bed, worshipping him like a sinner and a liar begging to be saved.

 

Simon raises an eyebrow. “Had a nice walk?” he asks companionably—cold, but companionably— as they both turn to walk into the heart of Jericho, where androids are huddling, as if they were cold.

 

“You sure took your damn time.” Simon mutters.

 

Markus ignores him. He  _did_ take his time.

 

Maybe it’s time for them to move on from Jericho. Maybe it’s time for them to find a home worthy of  _them_. Maybe it’s time to go back home, their true homes.

 

_Stop_.  _Stop._

 

His mind does. Then it starts anew.

 

_Home_.

 

Though Markus isn’t sure if he could do that for them.

 

Could find that, for them.

 

His thoughts are a swirl of darkness and confusion, ending with his vibrant need for freedom. When he’d been in Carl’s care, under his command, Markus didn’t feel or think these things. At least, not to  _this_ degree.

 

Maybe Connor  _is_ closer than he thinks to pulling Markus back into the clutches of CyberLife.

 

Simon tucks his hands inside his jacket pockets. He doesn’t look at Markus. “What’re we gonna do about it?”

 

Ah.  _It_.

 

The android chasing them down with the cold intent to end them all. To burn down the safe haven, the refuge, along with its people.

 

“It’s not a problem for us now.” Because Connor’s  _not_. He doesn’t know anything pertaining to Jericho, that much is sure. The only leeway he has is Markus, which is damning in and of itself, but, as Carl used to say with that scratchy voice of his, looking at Leo’s back as he walks away, swaying and shaking from something other than the cold,  _keep your friends close, and your enemies closer_. Then he’d laugh.

 

Leo was his  _son_  in the same vein that Connor is Markus’  _weakness_.

 

“You sure about that?” Simon voices, “Last we checked, and that was little more than a week ago, he was gunning down deviants left and right. CyberLife doesn’t want us back, they want us  _gone_.”

 

This is true. Connor isn’t just the pretty angel in his bed, he’s the angel of death, holding a scythe over him, watching him until he trips.

 

“He isn’t a problem for us _now_. We need to focus on gathering our ranks. Power in numbers. Save who we can.” Markus should hear himself. He sounds delusional. He sounds… like he’s dismissing Connor like he was a gnat to be swatted away. And what’s worse is that they all know that Connor RK800 shouldn’t be  _underestimated_.

 

“He?” Simon tilts his head. “ _He_ , Markus?”

 

Markus is stopped by Simon’s wide palm gripping his shoulder. What? What did he say?

 

Connor isn’t a _he_  to these people. Connor is an  _it_. A machine. There’s no hope for machines like Connor.

 

He’d do well to remember that. But he can’t.

 

“It’s still a man,” Markus says more to himself than to anyone, and Simon stares at him. His eyebrows have dipped low over his eyes. He’s always been suspicious of Markus.

 

Markus gathers himself and snaps, “We have more important things to worry about than a half-deviant android, Simon,” he says feverishly, almost hysterical over Simon pointing out his fib.

 

North’s face swims into view as she steps out with Josh right beside her, her eyebrows pulled into something that tells Markus that she’s more than a little worried for him. Simon casts her a look, setting his jaw. He looks like he’s about to tell North his slip, and Markus can feel himself unraveling.

 

And then one side of the vessel they call a refuge explodes.

 

It shakes the whole ship, and Markus barely thinks as he unholsters his gun, one hand on Josh’s bicep to steady him. North is raising her hand in command, and the rest of the androids either arm themselves or pile into the emergency exit they’d established.

 

_Fuck_ , Markus wants a goddamned cigarette.

 

He should have known that Connor would catch him sooner or later.  _The owl has found the rat’s nest_ , he thinks harshly and longingly as they split into groups of four, nodding at each other and promising to keep communication lines in between them open. His heart is beating faster than it’s ever been, and with every step he makes, it gets faster, as if his heart is anticipating someone to meet him in the middle, someone with a matching heartbeat.

 

The hallways are deserted and dirty. Debris littered around, cleaned up enough so they could pass it, but not enough for anyone to think that someone passed these halls regularly. It was quite a huge explosion; Markus is surprised that he hasn’t seen or heard anyone from the police or CyberLife.

 

North’s voice rings in his head:  _this might be a trap_.

 

Simon answers immediately.  _She’s right, but we can’t just retreat._

 

Josh clamps his mouth shut and doesn’t join in on the conversation. Markus doesn’t, either. They know that he thinks. They can’t let these assholes follow the other deviants. If they’re caught, they can just shoot themselves in the brain and be done with it. No one will know where the deviants are, but they won’t live to see their hard-earned freedom being won. It’s a small price to be paid.

 

Neon blue interrupts their inner conversation, and all of them raise their guns, silent as a mouse as their eyes train in on the glowing light.

 

Markus’ heart beats one last time, and  _stops_.

 

“Hello.”

 

“RK800.” North says coldly, cocking her gun to show that they mean to shoot to kill. Markus has his gun aimed at Connor’s leg. He’s not sure if it was unintentional or not.

 

Connor’s face is beautiful and sombre as he steps from the darkness and into the pale moonlight, and North takes one step nearer, swallowing audibly.

 

Markus anticipates cold brown eyes, but instead, Connor’s eyes are closed, and his rifle is still strapped to his back. Josh and Markus share a look.

 

“You owe me,” Connor begins, and a smile splits his face in half. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it misses about half a mile. It’s calculating and dark, almost pitiful.

 

Markus’ stomach churns.

 

“We owe you  _what_?” North instigates further. “We should just shoot you down here.” But she’s waiting on Markus’ signal. They all are, and that’s why they’re in this state of awkward stalemate.

 

North’s voice turns poisonous. “Kill you  _now_. End it all.”

 

“You owe me, so turn back and go  _now._ ” Connor’s eyes remain closed.

 

Simon steps forward. “How do we know you won’t just shoot our backs once we turn away?”

 

“Eyes closed.” Connor says as he taps his long fingers against his eyelids, “As far as I know, I just heard something.”

 

This doesn’t deter Simon from shaking his head and pointing his gun nozzle straight in between Connor’s eyes, following North, whose face is pulled into an ugly, unforgiving sneer. Markus is frozen in place, and Josh is looking at him with wide eyes, unsure and confused, as he should be.

 

“We don’t trust you.”

 

Connor’s lips tighten until they’re all but a white line on his face. His voice is teetering on pleading. “You owe me, so _stay alive_.” he says darkly, and a voice calls his name, making Connor turn his body, as if to heed the call.

 

“Go, now.” His body remains turned away. “ _Please_.”

 

North sets her gun tight against her body and tugs Markus harshly to get him moving. Simon and Josh has taken point to hurry forward, leaving North and Markus behind to follow.

 

“Wait,” Connor says before Markus could get his feet to move. “You. WR400.”

 

North grits her teeth but answers. Connor turns back around, and his eyes are open, staring right at Markus’ face, as if to memorise every dip, every scar made on his interface. He looks like he wants to put his hands on Markus, and he does as he rushes forward, Markus meeting him halfway, their hearts almost touching if not for the wires and artificial muscle and skin between them.

 

He doesn’t care that North is here. He doesn’t care that he hears the thud of military-issued boots echoing in the deep, curved halls of Jericho.

 

His arms wrap around Connor’s waist, hauling him up, Connor’s arms winding around his neck, clutching him tightly as they share an earth shattering kiss.

 

All at once, his mind is flooded with—

 

_Him._

 

It’s just  _him_. It’s Markus, in Connor’s memory.

 

Him sleeping, him with his eyes furrowed, looking out the window, naked, covered in scars that are past healing, and  _exhausted_. It’s just  _him_. Markus' eyes turn to look at Connor, in the memories, and are his eyes really that colour, or is Connor just as blinded by love as Markus is?

 

He never knew that he looked so…  _beautiful,_ so  _human_  in Connor’s eyes. Markus thought that it was just him that thought that.

 

“Connor!”

 

North pulls them apart, her face slack in shock and unadulterated rage and  _betrayal_ , but Markus doesn’t care.

 

Connor, he—

 

He _loves_ him.

 

“WR400,” Connor smiles as he regards North, a  _beautiful_ , beautiful smile on his face. It’s not sadistic, it’s small and well-earned, and it makes Connor look so much older, as if he’s finally feeling the wear and tear of what he’s programmed to do, but here and now, with his lips still tingling of Markus, he’s finally…  _content_.

 

_And like an angel rising from the ashes of war_ , Carl Manfred whispers as he swipes a single neon blue against a pale canvas,  _he is reborn_.

 

Connor raises his hands in surrender.

 

His mouth opens. “ _Lieutenant Anders_ —”

 

North snarls and aims her gun, but Markus is the one who  _shoots_.

 

_(To forgive is divine.)_

 

Her hand wraps around Markus’ coat as she drags him away, her face red as lights from scopes dance around their feet.

 

Markus wants to fucking vomit.

 

They leave Connor RK800 there in the halls of Jericho, his mouth stuck calling for the name of the people who wants to kill the man he loves, his heart slowing to a lulling, sweet beat until it stops keeping up with Markus’, his brain drained of the first and last kiss they shared, along with the rest of the memories with Markus in them.

 

Markus has picked up a bad habit.

 

And like all vices, it ends.

**Author's Note:**

> uh i dont have a tumblr but if u wanna be friends i love talking on the twit about tony stark and dbh and everything in between ! u can send me fic recs on my curiouscat, its linked on my bio ok [@maroonedstark](https://twitter.com/maroonedstark)
> 
> cheers !


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